


piece by piece

by kaermorons



Series: Witcher Jaskier Fics [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Vesemir-Centric, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, witchers feeling things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 11:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24848791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: Five times Vesemir thought he was Jaskier's father and one time he really was.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir
Series: Witcher Jaskier Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696759
Comments: 29
Kudos: 441
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	piece by piece

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Kelly Clarkson song of the same name.
> 
> Edit: I've been working on this piece for like over a month and by providence, I finished and posted it on Father's Day? I've ascended to the Muse Realm

**1**

“Heard your song,” Eskel grunted, not as in his cups as he was at the start of winter, but well on his way there. Vesemir looked up from his book at Geralt, who was glowering somewhat hard at his goblet.

“That fucking bard.” Geralt grumbled under his breath, but not quietly enough for a Witcher.

“How long did it take to shake him off your trail?” Lambert teased.

“Four. Months.” Geralt ground out. “He went off back home to Oxenfurt for the winter and promised me he’d find me again come spring. I’m not very eager to head south when it warms up.”

“Don’t be like that! He could be funny! He’s made us all some money. What’s his name again?”

“Jaskier. He says his mother named him Julian or something. She’s a countess in Oxenfurt, believe it or not. Didn’t know nobility let their stupid offspring out on the road.”

Vesemir was a tense statue in his chair as he listened. Even as Geralt went on to tell more and more about the boy, for he was a boy, at eighteen, Vesemir found himself denying facts left and right.

_ There’s plenty of countesses in Oxenfurt. _

“His mother collects and studies Witcher items. She’s got a huge library.”

_ Plenty of humans find us fascinating. _

“He never knew his father, apparently one of the few things Jaskier didn’t want to talk about.”

“He’s eighteen?” Vesemir rasped, taking a sip of wine to clear his throat some.

“Turned nineteen at the end of summer. Weirdest human I’ve ever met.”

_ How many years was it since...no. No, it couldn’t be. Nineteen years, ten months… _

“Fuck.” Vesemir breathed.

“That’s what I said.” Geralt muttered, apparently not noticing Vesemir’s distress.

Eskel and Lambert were a different story. They immediately caught onto Vesemir’s sudden attention on the subject.

“You mentioned he’s a bit of a slut, huh?” Lambert said to Geralt, eyes never leaving Vesemir. The oldest Witcher glared back with the promise of a brutal training session the next day.

“He tries to be.” Geralt shook his head. “Chases every skirt he can. And sometimes men, when there are no skirts that strike his fancy.” That brought a murmur of interest through the room. Witchers were no stranger to lying with one another, but the consensus was that humans had more of an issue accepting that.

“Let’s change the subject.” Vesemir pleaded weakly. “We aren’t out of other things to talk about yet that we have to resort to slutty bards as the topic of the evening.”

“Vesemir, you old prude.” Eskel jeered, smirking into his goblet. “Can’t handle a bit of dirty talk among friends?”

“You’re all children.” Vesemir rolled his eyes. The reminder of children only served to worsen his predicament. What was he going to do with a child? One that traveled with a Witcher? “Geralt, all I’ll say on the topic is keep that bard out of trouble. If humans realize you let a bard get killed on your watch, he’ll become a martyr much worse than those bastards in Blaviken.”

Geralt solemnly nodded, taking the warning to heart. Lambert and Eskel, on the other hand, grinned as wolfishly as the medallions on their chests.

**2**

Vesemir did not often go out on the road, busy enough with work at the keep, but something drew him back to the Path after five years off. He saw a signpost pointing to Oxenfurt that froze him in his tracks. Was that the reason he’d stopped on the trail? To finally get the answers to the questions he worried over all winter long? He shook his head and went in the opposite direction. No use panicking. Witchers did not panic, they…

Well. They certainly didn’t have children with human countesses, that’s for sure.

He holed up in a town that boasted a fair amount of contracts on the alderman’s board. It was still early spring, and this was probably a backlog from winter when all the Witchers were in hibernation. After speaking with the alderman, Vesemir negotiated a room at the inn and settled in for dinner. He hardly noticed the bard singing, never had reason to notice before, when he spoke.

“Now, I must admit that this is not a song of my own, but as he walks the world with Witchers, I believe his lyrics are in order.” Vesemir bristled at the recognition, eyes sliding to him from all corners of the room. “This is the bard Jaskier’s song,  _ The Summer of Swords.” _

The song began with a lively pattern of chords, complicated enough that one could hear the effort put into the jig. The bard’s voice rang clear across the room, capturing the attention of all who could listen to it. If this was what it sounded like from another, Vesemir could only imagine what it would sound like from the original artist.

_ I walk with an old man, a thousand stories old, _ _  
_ _ Though he looks like you or I _ _  
_ _ Except in the very dead of night when he lets his silver fly! _ _  
_ _ I could have gone a hundred years without knowing _ _  
_ _ The sound of blood on steel _ _  
_ _ As it falls in the valley, on the roofs, on the heads _ _  
_ _ Of the monsters I know are real. _

_ But I learned in my summer of swords _ _  
_ _ The honor that lies in death _ __  
_ And I hope to spend my very last day _ _  
_ __ Earning every stolen breath

Vesemir’s chest warmed with a sudden swell of pride. In just a few months of walking with Geralt, he’d managed to learn the thankless duty all Witchers were held to. Vesemir himself had wasted his breath on trying to convince humans otherwise, that their prejudices were unfounded and spoiled by their fear. In truth, Vesemir understood the scorn and had instructed his own pack on the dangers of getting a bit too close to humans because of it.

Jaskier understood the heart of a Witcher, at the very least. That he could see the truth from the most emotionally impenetrable among them was a miracle.

Perhaps the young bard had inherited some of Mignole’s natural inclination toward Witchers in general.  _ There was also that annoying professor staying with her while Vesemir had last visited.  _

He took in the words from the bard’s song passively, letting them absorb into his skin. He felt them there, settled into his wrinkles, for a much longer time than he expected. He was filled with the urge to write the words and keep them pinned on a wardrobe, so he would have a reminder of the good his son had done.

_ His son. _

Vesemir asked for a bottle of the harshest thing the tavern carried.

**3**

Vesemir found himself out on the road more and more each year, since learning of Geralt’s new traveling partner. He heard Jaskier’s songs in taverns, he whistled tunes he’d picked up, but he’d never heard him in person. If he was honest with himself, he was glad to have been spared that experience. What would an old Witcher like himself even have to say to a young man like him? They had practically nothing in common besides Geralt and the Path they walked.

Of course, Jaskier’s circumstance for walking said Path was much different than his own.

The winter had been mild enough that the Wolves came out of hibernation early that year. The walk into Hertch with Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert was a nice change of pace from seeing them off at the keep’s gates.

He decided to stick mainly to the region around the Morhen Valley, where he’d be able to slip easily back to Kaer Morhen whenever the need arose. He was near the eastern border of Kaedwen when he met Jaskier.

It was still too early in spring for Jaskier to have begun traveling with Geralt - he’d mentioned an annual spring festival in Novigrad that hadn’t yet happened. Vesemir was nearly about to turn around on the road, and brave the trail back up to Kaer Morhen before the weather turned wet and soggy.

“Witcher! There’s a beast in the woods! It took my wife!” a voice cut in, shaking his thoughts of the old keep. Vesemir regarded the panicked villager.

“Say more. Start from the beginning. Have you coin?” Vesemir instructed. The villager promised him a modest sum and a free meal and bed in the tavern before Vesemir listened to his story.

It sounded like a ghoul. The man’s house sat next to a graveyard, and the fresh burial must have attracted the beast. Vesemir tracked it out to a cave, killed it, and brought the frightened, injured woman back. She was alive, which was more than a Witcher could wish for, dealing with disappearances. He accepted his payment fairly and silently, heading for the tavern to eat and rest.

Vesemir did not see the same adventure and grandeur of Witchering as some of the younger ones did. He’s sure that if a bard had begun following him around, it would have been worse than them following Geralt. Vesemir not only treated every hunt with an element of boredom, but he was also even more tight-lipped than the White Wolf.

“Goodness, you’re a Witcher, aren’t you?” a bright voice interjected. Vesemir did not look up from his ale.

“Not taking another contract til morning,” Vesemir grunted.

“Oh, I’m not here for that.” The voice replied, taking the seat opposite Vesemir. The old Witcher looked up to level the bold man with an unimpressed stare but stopped in his tracks at the sight of the intricately-carved lute across the man’s shoulders.

Bright clothes, floppy hair, blue eyes brilliant with curiosity.

This was Jaskier. This was his son.

Vesemir’s mouth was too dry to form words around, so he settled for a grunt, feeling more awkward than he remembered ever being.

“Wolf medallion, but your hair’s as silver as your swords. You must be Vesemir, Master of Kaer Morhen.” Jaskier said conspiratorially.

“Vesemir will do,” he choked out.

“You must have a hundred stories that would turn a thousand heads,” the bard said, leaning in. Gods, but he did look like Mignole, the infectious curiosity toward Witchers present in every inch of the young man. His chest filled with pride at the thought of his son respecting his profession, with enough effort to even try and mend their reputation as a whole.

“Why would I tell you anything?” Vesemir muttered. “I’m not looking for songs to follow my footsteps around the Continent.”

“Consider it a personal interest.”

Vesemir met the man’s eyes again, schooling his face into as neutral an expression as he could. He had nothing to say that would fully encompass the emotions raging through him at the moment.

“I can see you’re busy with your dinner. If you’re still here after I play some music for these lovely people, may I ask one story?” It was a fair trade, Vesemir knew. It placed no pressure on the Witcher himself, and he could literally get up and leave at any time. He nodded to the bard silently and watched him walk away to a raised stage.

Jaskier greeted the evening crowd and broke into a quick-paced jig with thinly-veiled innuendo that had Vesemir smirking and shifting uncomfortably at the same time. Most of the songs Jaskier sang were already well-known to Vesemir, and he felt his too-slow heart pull when he sang  _ Summer of Swords. _

He stayed in his seat the whole evening. When Jaskier came to collect his story, Vesemir managed to stumble through a story from his youth, one that still sparkled with nostalgia and adventure enough to interest. It was about a clever kikimora, and he’d killed plenty of them since, but the action and danger of that one hunt had stuck with Vesemir after all these centuries walking the Path.

Jaskier did not take notes, but kept his eyes and attention firmly on the Witcher before him, drinking in the experience like it was happening before his eyes. He had a fond look about him. Vesemir wondered if Jaskier  _ knew, _ and his words faltered then.

“And then I brought its leg bag to town, got paid, and moved on.”

Jaskier laughed at the sudden brevity, drinking his cider. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“Thank you,” Vesemir chopped out. “For your efforts to try and change things. I know Geralt doesn’t give you praise enough for it, but I’ve already seen the effects of your work on my own travels. You… you’re doing well, Jaskier. I’m very proud. Of you. Son.”

Jaskier’s expression went from amused to confused in less than a second, and before he could loose the question from his tongue, Vesemir stood and retreated up to his room as quickly as an old Witcher could.

**4**

Vesemir hid in the keep for the rest of the year that he met Jaskier face-to-face. For whatever reason, the embarrassment of letting his tongue take the reins was too much to bear another chance of seeing Jaskier again.

That winter, Geralt either knew better than to talk about his bard’s off-chance meeting with the old Witcher, or Jaskier hadn’t told him. Vesemir had worried himself to pieces about the outcome, and when the topic wasn’t brought up, he was relieved.

Deep in the winter, however, he came upon a book of poetry in the keep’s library. Vesemir generally stuck to the histories and bestiaries, but something had called him to the more entertaining shelves. A thought came unbidden to his mind as he read the story of a knight looking for his sword in a river.

_ Jaskier would like this poem. _

Immediately, Vesemir had closed the book, frightened that someone else in the keep would read his thoughts and know his secrets. He found himself going back to the book often and seeking out the more entertaining tomes Kaer Morhen kept. They’d been long unopened, and a few pages stuck here and there, but Vesemir devoured them with the intensity he’d taken to sword fighting.

When Vesemir announced his intentions to head for the coast come spring, none of the other Wolves paid it much attention. For this, he was glad. The less they asked about his intended travels, the less he’d have to lie to them.

The spring festival in Novigrad was loud, even miles away from the city. Vesemir realized it was because the festivities were so broad, they spilled out of the city walls and into the surrounding it. He stabled his horse as far from the event as he could, and kept his hood up. Vendors hawked their wares with differing pitches of shouts, and music poured from every tavern in the city. While the competition portion of the festival was centralized to the Royal Novigrad Theater, everyone was in the spirit of early spring.

Vesemir had never seen such an event with his own eyes before. He supposed that his old age weathered down his senses enough to make the chaos bearable, more than younger Witchers would be able to stand. At least he wouldn’t be running into anybody he knew within the city walls.

Eavesdropping on chatter as he walked around, he learned that Jaskier was supposedly in an improvised song contest being held that evening, against his great rival, Valdo Marx. Supposedly, Marx trained under the rival of Jaskier’s teacher back in Oxenfurt, and they both kept up the mutual antagony for traditions’ sake. Vesemir bought a ticket into the theater a few minutes before the competition was due to begin, and he took a seat in a dark corner, where the acoustics didn’t sound as sharp as in the center rows.

The book of poems felt rather heavy in his bag but kept Vesemir grounded as more and more ridiculous men competed on the stage.  _ Do it for your son. _

Finally, at the end of the night, the master of ceremonies announced the final two bards competing. Jaskier paraded out at the opposite end of the stage as Marx, and they shook hands amiably. Whatever contempt they had, it was hidden under good showmanship. Vesemir was proud of that, and had taught the younger Witchers the same: be polite until you cannot be.

Marx won the opening advantage and began singing. Eight bars later, Jaskier chimed in, matching the content of his competitor and crafting a beautiful metaphor out of thin air. Marx parried at his turn, and Vesemir understood the competition even more.

While Vesemir fought valiantly with well-swung swords and blades, his son fought with words, mocking melodies, and well-sung stories. He had an obvious wealth of knowledge, referring to histories and myth alike. Marx was skilled in rhyme, not a slant to any of his words, and sang clearly, but in a limited range. Jaskier belted high notes and practically snarled some of his words, weaving winks and jokes into each of his verses.

They continued for almost an hour, telling their spun story as one and showing off against each other until Marx could not remember the name of a Redanian king’s consort thirty years’ gone. Jaskier masterfully went in for the killing blow, rhyming her name and accepting Valdo’s concession. They bowed, and the crowd erupted in a massive wave of applause.

Vesemir went to his feet, cheering for his son along with the rest of them. Surging pride brought the prickle of tears to the backs of his eyes, and he could hardly shout without his throat closing up. He whistled long and loud from his spot in the back, seeing Jaskier accept his prize and wave to his adoring fans.

When he left the theater among the throngs of other thrilled observers, he sighed happily. He wished to congratulate his son in person but knew that with fame came an unreachable status that Vesemir just couldn’t grab. He held his hand flat against the poetry book in the pocket of his robe.

No, just to see him was good enough, and really all an old Witcher like him deserved. He gave a sad smile and turned into a quieter tavern to grab an ale.

To his surprise, a familiar face was sitting in the darkest corner of the barroom. “Master Witcher!” Jaskier said, just loud enough for Vesemir to hear and not draw attention to himself. “Join me, please.”

So much for his planned anonymity at this.

Vesemir sat with Jaskier. “Caught the tail end of your competition. Great job, son.” Jaskier flushed at the praise, ducking his head. “Why aren’t you out experiencing revelry? You seem to be hiding from the very attention you flourish in.”

“Damned Witchers, so observant. Can’t keep a secret from you lot, can I?” Jaskier laughed into his ale. “I like the quiet, sometimes. When enough people crowd you, it gets hard to think, even for a human such as myself.” Vesemir nodded in agreement. “Geralt wouldn’t come ten miles from Novigrad right now, what’s got you in the Free City?”

Vesemir had anticipated lying to the other Wolves, but with those blue eyes on him, he balked at the interrogation. He’d never planned to meet up with Jaskier so soon. “I’m older, duller than most. Figured I’d enjoy your work more than Geralt did. You deserve it.”

Jaskier gave him a smile, a real and genuine one. “Never took Witchers for any sort of artistic inclination. I’m gladly surprised. And enough about being old and dull, you’re sharp as the rest of them, I’m sure.” Jaskier waved off Vesemir’s bitter senility. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“I can buy my own ale, son. It’s you who shouldn’t be paying for drinks.” Vesemir rose to the bar and brought back another round. “I haven’t heard any of the newer songs circulating the Continent until you came ‘round.”

“Well, I’m honored to play earworm.” Jaskier laughed. “Should we cross paths again, I should play you some older ditties.”

“Oh, I’m hundreds of years old, son. I doubt you’d know many of the songs I croaked in my youth.” Jaskier’s eyes filled with curious excitement.

“Try me.”

Vesemir gave him an easy one, a popular song from about fifty years ago. Jaskier grinned and quietly sang a verse, propping his head upon his chin. They exchanged histories and songs for hours and hours, until the sun streamed in from under the tavern door long after last call. Jaskier did not tire of this game, delighting in impressing Vesemir at his vast knowledge.

At every turn, the fondness in Vesemir’s old heart of stone softened him, until he was laughing freely and slapping the table at an off-hand remark from Jaskier.

“How in the hells did you learn all these? You must have had a very studied upbringing.” Vesemir said, forgetting himself for a moment.

Jaskier gave a soft smile. “I was taught by one of my mother’s patrons.” The reasoning sounded so practiced and rehearsed, Vesemir was brought back to reality. Jaskier continued, “He was the most annoyingly brilliant storyteller and historian I’ve ever met. He told every story as if he’d been there, and you would listen and feel like you were right there with him.”

Vesemir nodded and cleared his throat. “And your father?” Jaskier kept his eyes on his mug.

“Never met him. Haven’t sought him.”

Vesemir’s heart throbbed painfully, regret flooding his veins. They both sat in silence for some time before Jaskier cleared his throat, moving to stand. “I should probably find a bed before the next competition.”

Vesemir nodded in understanding. In the dawn light, Jaskier’s hair seemed to glow in a way Vesemir remembered his own used to before the dullness of age took its color. His mouth moved, guided by his heart. “If your father saw you now, he’d be damned proud of you.”

The ferocity of his words turned Jaskier’s eyes back upon his, and though he did not respond, they shared an understanding, the beginnings of trust, and careful respect.

It was all Vesemir could ask of his son.

**5**

News of a Viper found killed in Cedaris reached Vesemir in nearby Kerack. The details surrounding the kill only brought more mystery to the event. Geralt had been there on a hunt with Jaskier, after some incident concerning a djinn. Vesemir’s cowardice had stayed his feet from the road to Oxenfurt, but he knew in his gut that Geralt would be headed to Kaer Morhen much sooner than late autumn. He started his route back to the Blue Mountains.

He arrived about a month after, and within a week, Vesemir could see Lambert at the base of the trail leading up to Kaer Morhen. So he’d heard the news, too, then. Eskel arrived next. They all awaited the White Wolf’s arrival to the keep.

“A Viper? I thought they all died years ago.” Lambert said one evening.

“They did. They all died, maybe fifty years ago.” Eskel answered.

“Apparently not all of them,” Vesemir grumbled. He wasn’t concerned with Geralt going up against another Witcher, but if Jaskier had been traveling with him, he would have been in more danger than just tagging along on hunts. He pushed the thoughts from his mind as his chest tightened up uncomfortably, anxiety radiating from deep in his bones. If his son was hurt…

“You alright, old man?” Lambert asked, concerned despite his playful tone.

“Fine.” Vesemir barked. “I’m going to the library. Tell me when you see them on the trailhead.”

Eskel and Lambert exchanged a look but nodded and said no more.

Geralt arrived at the trailhead a few days later, with another man on a horse next to him. Vesemir lost sight of them behind the trees before he could make sure, but it looked like a lute was strapped to the horse’s saddle. Jaskier.

He buzzed with anxious energy the entire day. He wouldn’t be able to hide how he cared for his son in front of a keep full of Witchers, not for very long, at least. He kept away from Lambert and Eskel for the days leading to their arrival.

A loud screech from the valley below on the third day brought Eskel down on Scorpion to investigate. From the cry, Vesemir could identify a royal griffin, and really this was why nobody went to Kaer Morhen save for winter. The Blue Mountains were riddled with dark creatures. Vesemir played a tense game of Gwent with Lambert to pass the time, keeping his thoughts away from the men in the valley below.

Eskel came running into the hall maybe a half-hour later. “You’re not going to believe this.”

_ A Witcher. Jaskier was a Witcher. Jaskier wasn’t actually his son. _

Where there should have been relief, bitter sadness remained. That, and a kicking sense of stupidity. Of course Jaskier wasn’t his son. Vesemir was sterile; he knew this and had known this for centuries. Why had he panicked so much over a strange set of coincidences he hadn’t even asked to confirm? He should have ridden to Oxenfurt that very first spring to confirm his suspicions, instead of letting sixteen years go by worrying about a Witcher (a Witcher!) who could take care of himself?

Seeing him in person, knives in a sheath and burns along his jaw, was a different story. He noticed similarities to the man he’d seen in Novigrad a few years ago, and to another man he hadn’t thought of in years.

_ The glamour was heavy and clumsy, and the beard only hid so much of the man’s face. Why was a glamoured, ill-dressed man in Mignole’s house? Vesemir decided to fuck with him, just a little. “That’s an ugly fucking glamour,” Vesemir said when they were alone in Mignole’s library. _

_ “That’s an ugly fucking hat, but I’m not introducing myself saying that.” The man’s blue eyes twinkled with delight and enjoyment. “Julian Alfred Pankrantz. I’m a professor at the University.” _

_ “Vesemir. Witcher. School of the Wolf.” The man looked him over slowly, giving himself a nod. _

_ “Yes, I could see that.” The man mumbled, his voice drifting off in that way it goes when one gets lost in their own thoughts. _

“Vesemir.”

“Julian.”  _ Jaskier. _

“You finally got rid of that ugly hat.”

“You finally got rid of that ugly glamour.”

“Loose your purse, you owe me fifty crowns, you old bag.” Vesemir shook his head at Jaskier’s grin and paid up, a debt done.

He met the Witcher’s eyes, but in the face of so many questions, he just felt at peace.

**+1**

Seeing off Geralt and Jaskier was a lot harder than Vesemir thought it would be. He found Jaskier in the library, at the window with the two worn bits on the carpet before it. He had his arms crossed over his chest, watching the quiet, empty street below.

“No one to pick and watch?” Vesemir asked, keeping to the entrance in case his presence wasn’t welcome. Jaskier must have heard him coming, though, so he decided to sit in one of the armchairs.

“Nothing so depressing,” Jaskier said, turning and sitting across from him. They looked at one another like they always did, as if seemingly for the first time. They did not speak for a few long minutes. Vesemir had so many things he wanted to say, wanted to ask, but none of them were brave enough to make it past his tongue. Jaskier had that same look about him. At long last, he spoke. “You thought you were my father for sixteen years.”

Vesemir’s defeated sigh answered for him. He cast his eyes down at the carpet, unable to bear the disappointment he thought to be in those blue (always blue) cat-eyes.

“You know, I’ve been raised by women all my life,” Jaskier said. “I consider them my mothers, in a strange way. I was orphaned around three, and Janna brought me into the clutch when she found me in Kerack. Her wife, Hanara, led the Vipers.”

“I knew Hanara. She came to get the medallions made every couple of years before she took over,” Vesemir added softly, not wanting to interrupt. “She was a fine woman.”

“She was. They… Nobody had ever chosen to care for me before them. I’ve seen and helped raise enough orphans to know that family is who you choose, and who chooses you back. When I came to Oxenfurt, I had nothing. Minnie,” Jaskier cleared his throat. “She chose me and waited a very long time before I chose her back.”

Vesemir understood his meaning and ruminated on it fleetingly. In a way, upon learning of Jaskier and making his wild assumptions, Vesemir knew what it was like to choose a family. He hadn’t done it consciously, but he’d also chosen Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert. They were as much his sons as Jaskier was. There was no blood they shared, but their hearts were the same, and he felt fiercely for them. He could have, after the attack, disappeared on his own with no consequence. He could have spent the following decades not worrying if they’d come back for winter, or not returning himself.

They needed someone to choose them. Witchers, as lonely as they were, needed the same kind of love and care humans did. At their cores, they were all still as human and as vulnerable as they were before the Trials.

“When I met Geralt, I chose him instantly. He held so much on his shoulders that I was already well-practiced in bearing with others, with my family. Helping unload his pain, his grief, his suffering, just so he could relax fulfilled me in a way I hadn’t felt in fifty years. 

“When he spoke of you, spoke of his brothers, I could see you all were so close to understanding how to deliberately choose to be one another’s family.” Vesemir nodded. He had seen the hard shell on his sons crack and weather away over their winters together. “I’m sorry if I created any distress for you in my alias.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Vesemir said. “It’s in the past. I’m done kicking myself over it.”

“No.” Jaskier said, standing.

“No?”

“No,” he repeated. “I may not have been raised by wolves as you were, as you raised your sons, but I am choosing again, I’m choosing you, Vesemir.”

The silence could not quiet the rushing noise in Vesemir’s head. The surge of pride and fulfillment he’d missed since learning of his mistake finally broke against the last bit of wall he had up around his heart, and he stood, embracing his son.

His son.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3 comments and kudos are beloved, please come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://kaermorons.tumblr.com/)!!


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